


In The Woods Somewhere

by queensmooting



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff With A Shadow Over It, Gen, Hiking, Murder Family, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:53:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25361224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensmooting/pseuds/queensmooting
Summary: A predator knows when she must hide, and when she must leap into the light.
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham & Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	In The Woods Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on a few longer things but here's something short that suddenly chomped down on my brain and wouldn't let go. this is set between episodes 8 and 9 probably? and yes it would actually kill me to come up with an original title

Abigail breathes no easier in Maryland woods.

Similarities stalked her from her old life, clung like tendrils to her ankles on the plane east. She tries to shake them off. Here as in Minnesota, as in any stretch of autumn wood, the earth colors and crackles in its annual death. Surely any hillside would hum with unseen insects, would gnarl and twist with roots underfoot, fighting to reclaim a well-trod path.

The novelty of city stirrings beyond the trees does little to keep her from looking over her shoulder at every rustle of a leaf. Expecting prey. Expecting her father.

She’d already be wearing a scarf in Minnesota, so quickly the weather turned. Today she carries one in her pack out of habit, but she doesn’t wear it now. She doesn’t have to, not with them. They earned their scars together.

Will checks his watch for the eighth or ninth time. Abigail’s hands tighten on the strap of her pack. Every time he rolls back the wrist of his sleeve it reminds her there’s a deadline on her time outside Port Haven, that they’ll hunt her down if she’s not back by five o’clock.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” Abigail finally says. “We won’t be late.”

“No, we won’t,” Hannibal agrees.

He covers Will’s watch, lowering his wrist. Will glares, but it loses much of its edge without his glasses. He isn’t hiding today.

“We wouldn’t do anything to risk your privileges,” Hannibal says.

“Or our time with you,” Will adds.

_ Trust me. Trust us _ . It’s under their every word, her only choice wrapped in the form of a kind, fatherly request. The thing is, the terrible thing is, she does. She trusts their kind of love, the only kind she knows.

Tendrils curl at her heels.

Another hiker, an earlier riser, makes her way down the slope. Hannibal exchanges good mornings with her as she passes. Will looks off toward the treeline instead, grunting something that could almost pass for a greeting. Abigail stares at the ground, raising a hand to cover her throat until the woman passes.

_ What a trio we make _ .

As they rise through the hills a wind-stir of ferns swallows the rush of cars. Abigail slows to let the other two walk ahead of her, closing her eyes to enjoy the blurred division between the city and the wild, the new and the old. Something far and removed from any reality she’s ever known.

Then something whispers beyond a tangle of blackberry.

Once it might have frozen her, a footstep in the brush, a growl of life out of sight. But Abigail isn’t bait on a hook anymore. She isn’t frightened of anything off the path, where the wild things lay in wait. Now she opens her eyes to meet them.

The whisper dies away. All Abigail hears now is the murmur of voices up ahead, Hannibal and Will talking over a trail-side plaque warning about poison hogweed. 

“Hey guys? Did you--”

They look up in synchronicity. Abigail gets the crawling impression of a twin-headed hydra, scenting something disturbing its lair. For a moment she sees an inevitability in them, something waiting for her since the day her father died. Something stronger than fate and more like blood, the kind she’s felt flow through her hands. The kind that bound a family together.

She forgets about the sound and walks toward them, unafraid. A predator knows when she must hide, and when she must leap into the light.

*

Will sighs with the relief of removing his backpack. The strap dug deep into his shoulder, stirring up old wounds, already agitated from trips to the range with Beverly. It doesn’t even occur to take in the view until he feels Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder (his good one, blessedly), gently nudging him along. Abigail’s already perched at the rocky edge, a hand at her brow to shield from the sun.

Pines tumble down the hillside to mesh with creeping houses, then give way to the rise of streets and offices. Far, far below, the bay winds out of the city into the late morning light, where nature reigns once more. High above, with a hawk’s-eye view, Will's thoughts don’t feel wrong inside his head. He can almost see the bass swarming in the bay.

“That goes out to the ocean?” Abigail asks, pointing at the water.

“Takes about two hundred miles,” Will says. “But it does.”

“I’ve never been. To the ocean.”

They’re all quiet for a moment. Will meets Hannibal’s eyes over her head.

“Then we’ll have to go,” Hannibal says.

The sun shines stronger on the hilltop. Abigail, wincing in the light, unzips her pack to take out the baseball cap Will lent her, threading her ponytail through the opening in the back. Hannibal even takes off his coat, closing his eyes to enjoy the sun on his face. Will takes his moment of distraction to marvel at the sight of him in what must somehow be his most casual slacks and sweater. He finds himself oddly wishing for something to give Hannibal too, something like he gave Abigail, something to tie them all together.

“So,” Abigail says, settling in. “What’s on the menu today?”

Hannibal takes a thermos from his pack and three cups. “To drink, a pureed blend of natural berries spiced with cinnamon, mixed with seeds and yogurt for protein on our journey--”

“Smoothies,” Will says.

“The side is simple salted and caramelized granola, nuts, cherries I dried myself over a period of--”

“Trail mix.”

Hannibal meets his eyes, something daring there. “Thin-sliced strips of steak in a spiced marinade, oven-dried to--”

“Beef jerky.”

Abigail snorts, her eyes dancing between them. Hannibal’s pout is disarmed by the warmth in his gaze. The Bureau feels lifetimes away.

As the hour nears noon more people reach the top, their footsteps and voices jarring to the peace the three of them created. They finish lunch, pack up and stand again. Will lets Hannibal and Abigail walk ahead, aiming brief glances at the strangers on the summit. He waits to see if anyone watches their little group too closely, if anyone turns to follow.

The protectiveness toward Abigail is nothing new. A similar feeling developing for Hannibal, however, surprises him. Hannibal proved capable of caring for himself only a week ago. But when the wind pushes his hair away there’s cuts on his face, and Will wishes he had been there.

  
For what, he isn’t sure.

*

On their walk downhill Hannibal reflects on gravity.

He feels his own legs fight its pull, watches Will and Abigail work not to skip downhill too fast. There was something primal in the thought of letting go, of sprinting down the slope like a common animal, something horned and clawed and fit for a mountainside. Normally he would make these observations out loud, see what Will might have to add, but today Hannibal is content to watch him and Abigail in the midday sun.

The light changes as he slows to let them walk ahead. The grass glows a Tuscan gold. The trees send shadows waving across foliage like a busy sea.

Abigail is talkative on the drive back, invigorated by the air outside Port Haven. She only grows quiet again when they turn onto her street, retreating into a protective shell she hadn’t needed with them. Will slides his glasses back on when they arrive.

As Will signs her in, another patient jogs into the hallway, a girl enough of an age with Abigail to be her classmate. To be her victim.

“There you are, Abby!”

The girl takes Abigail by the arm and tugs her away. Abigail turns and waves. When her eyes meet Hannibal’s she nods slightly. He nods back, all secrets known and kept.

Will frowns. “Where did ‘Abby’ come from?”

“A new identity can be a vital piece of a new life.”

“If only it were that easy.” Will fidgets with his glasses. “It doesn’t suit her.”

“It never does,” Hannibal says, “to hide from who we truly are.”

They go together to the parking lot, the last of the early afternoon’s chill easing into something more comfortable. Will carries both in his skin, at once cool as river water and hot as a fresh kill.

When they reach the car Will winces, leaning back against the door.

“Headache?” Hannibal asks.

“It’s fine.”

The words barely escape Will’s gritted teeth. So often Will reminds him of a predator prowling in its pen, yet to discover its door was already ajar.

Hannibal steps forward, waits for Will’s reaction. When he doesn’t flinch Hannibal pushes Will’s glasses up to rest in his hair. It gives access to Will’s temples, where Hannibal rubs slow soothing circles.

“Oh.”

“What is it?” Hannibal asks.

“Your hands are cold.”

Hannibal starts to pull them away, only for Will to pull them right back.

“No, I mean, it’s...fine.”

On the drive to Virginia Hannibal resumes his thoughts from their walk. As much as he was a man of indulgences, there too was something divine in keeping control, in separating from lowlier beasts, giving into a force of nature only as much as he chose.

Control. He never used to need the reminder. Hannibal marvels at the change as much as he resents it.

“Will, do you ev--”

He stops when he glances over to find Will dozing, his face nestled against cool glass. Hannibal smiles, returning his eyes to the road. It can wait. Gravity may be closing in on them, but they have time enough before it pulls.


End file.
